We made it out alive.From Xmas day that is.
The girl's first ever and the boy's first where he actually understood the concepts of Santa, presents, being good and eating till plum pud pours out your pores.
Unfortunately Master M didn't seem to quite grasp the associated concepts of:
a) Giving people what they want ("What do you want to get Dad Mike?" questioned mum. "Salty!!" {Salty being a Thomas the tank engine character...})
b) Keeping presents secret ("Dad, Dad,... I got you Salty!!")
c) The exact date of Xmas ("Dad, Dad,.. open your Salty present NOW!!!" ...demanded on Xmas eve.)
c) The exact date of Xmas ("Dad, Dad,.. open your Salty present NOW!!!" ...demanded on Xmas eve.)
d) Sharing ("Dad, Dad,..
. you share your toys; I want Salty!" declared the boy.
"Ok... I'll give you Salty if you give me Bill {one half of 'Bill&Ben' of Thomas engine fame; not the doper weeds}" replied Dad.
"NOOOO!!!!" cried the lad. "I have both! Gimme Salty.")
. you share your toys; I want Salty!" declared the boy."Ok... I'll give you Salty if you give me Bill {one half of 'Bill&Ben' of Thomas engine fame; not the doper weeds}" replied Dad.
"NOOOO!!!!" cried the lad. "I have both! Gimme Salty.")
Such a day was, we imagine, fairly typical of a million kiddies houses in Melbourne alone.
The girl, of course, had little concept of what in the wide wide world of sports was going on, other than this coloured paper stuff was great to chew on and sparkly ribbon things got caught in your toes.
Hence her antics were decidedly everyday.
Hence her antics were decidedly everyday.
Eat.
Poo.
Sleep.
Cry.
All the good stuff.
All the good stuff.
Ok, she rolled about a bit and indeed displayed many feats of strength as discussed previously.
And she did seem rather chuffed with a couple of her pressies; the soft-yet-crinkly book
(which she chewed) and most of all the teething ring from Nana that she gummed on for much of the day. For the boy, however, it was anything but ordinary.
The fun started at the ford-foresaken hour of 6:15am.
There was the sound of little footsteps and a muffled "ooohhhh..." followed by the unmistakable rustling of wrapping paper being interrogated by little fingers.
"Hey Mike,... whadchya doing?" mum called.
"Errr.... n.o.t.h.i.n.g...." came the all too innocent reply.
"Has Santa been?" dad queried.
"YESSS!!!"
There was clearly going to be no stopping of this irresistible force, hence out of bed it was for all and sundry to the wonderful sound of sparrows farting.
Granted the boy was a little confused about the actual status of Santa's visit. T
he problem being that the little bit of milk left in the glass and mostly eaten Christmas cake and crumbs left on the side table by the tree actually said to him that Santa hadn't been. Or rather, as there were left overs, he was at least due back.
he problem being that the little bit of milk left in the glass and mostly eaten Christmas cake and crumbs left on the side table by the tree actually said to him that Santa hadn't been. Or rather, as there were left overs, he was at least due back.At this juncture we offer some worldly advice.
One trap for young players that we learnt from last year; don't have all the chocky for breakfast - the sugar rush is too much for a present tearing toddler to bear and it all ends in tears about an hour later. Instead we had tea/hot milk and toast while perched in front o
f the brand spanker new "Hero of the Rails" Thomas full length feature movie.
All before 7am.
It was almost sane.
One trap for young players that we learnt from last year; don't have all the chocky for breakfast - the sugar rush is too much for a present tearing toddler to bear and it all ends in tears about an hour later. Instead we had tea/hot milk and toast while perched in front o
f the brand spanker new "Hero of the Rails" Thomas full length feature movie.All before 7am.
It was almost sane.
Presents done, it was off to the paternal family do.
More food, more kiddies, more chaos, and a wonderful walk to the beach afterwards to burn up the pore pouring pud.
This, of course, being our second Christmas feast of the week.
Two days earlier it had been the maternal nosh up, complimented by a good old Au
ssie stinker of a hot afternoon (39degC /102.2F) to go with the roast chicken, amazingly yummy nutloaf for the vegetarians (which always gets dad singing "nutloaf city limits"; he cracks himself up), lashings of gravy and the funny hats/terrible jokes.
Finally, and in the spirit of dad's Welsh ancestors sending all the pre-pubescent boys 'down pit', we give you a Christmas tale of father and son.
Dad had received a remote control plane for Christmas.
It is small and very light and hence quite twitchy in a bayside seabreeze.
Add that to the fact that dad is at best an amateur
aviator/moron and you get a plane performing a perfect stuka divebomb into the backyard hedge and ending up on the ground wedged deep behind the undergrowth against the fence.
"Awww crumbs {or words to that effect}" said dad, as he tried to think of ways to retrieve the damn thing from the impenetrable wilds of suburban Melbourne.
"Mmmm... small hole under bush; dad too big (especially after pud) for hole; must find something small and monkey-like... HEY BOY!?!?"
Hence;
One boy sent down pit.
One plane rescued.
One dad happy/possibly in breach of UN child labour laws,
One Xmas saved.
But of course it's all about the kids.
.
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More food, more kiddies, more chaos, and a wonderful walk to the beach afterwards to burn up the pore pouring pud.
This, of course, being our second Christmas feast of the week.
Two days earlier it had been the maternal nosh up, complimented by a good old Au
ssie stinker of a hot afternoon (39degC /102.2F) to go with the roast chicken, amazingly yummy nutloaf for the vegetarians (which always gets dad singing "nutloaf city limits"; he cracks himself up), lashings of gravy and the funny hats/terrible jokes.Finally, and in the spirit of dad's Welsh ancestors sending all the pre-pubescent boys 'down pit', we give you a Christmas tale of father and son.
Dad had received a remote control plane for Christmas.
It is small and very light and hence quite twitchy in a bayside seabreeze.
Add that to the fact that dad is at best an amateur
aviator/moron and you get a plane performing a perfect stuka divebomb into the backyard hedge and ending up on the ground wedged deep behind the undergrowth against the fence."Awww crumbs {or words to that effect}" said dad, as he tried to think of ways to retrieve the damn thing from the impenetrable wilds of suburban Melbourne.
"Mmmm... small hole under bush; dad too big (especially after pud) for hole; must find something small and monkey-like... HEY BOY!?!?"
Hence;
One boy sent down pit.
One plane rescued.
One dad happy/possibly in breach of UN child labour laws,
One Xmas saved.
But of course it's all about the kids.
.
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